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Absolutely brilliant to have this site back. Here's my contribution.
This is in memory of our beloved Millie-dog whom we lost a week ago to cancer.
If it should be that I grow frail and weak, and pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then you must do what must be done, for this last battle can't be won,
You will be sad I understand, but don't let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day more than the rest, your love and friendship must stand the test,
We have had so many happy years, what is to come can hold no fears,
You wouldn't want me to suffer, so, when the time comes please let me go,
Take me to where my needs they'll tend, only, stay with me until the end,
Hold me firm and speak to me, until my eyes no longer see,
I know in time you will agree It is a kindness that you do for me, although my tail it's last has waved from pain and suffering I've been saved,
Please don't grieve that it must be you who had to decide this thing to do,, we've been SO close, we two, these years, don't let your heart hold any tears.
We did stay with her until the end in our own home, and have shed many many tears but she was a very sick little dog, and I know we did the right thing. Millie is now buried in the garden under the hedge where she spent many happy hours just poking about!!
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THE DONKEY (by G.K. Chesterton 1874 - 1936)
When fishes flew and forests walked
And figs grew upon thorn,
Some moment when the moon was blood
Then surely I was born.
With monstrous head and sickening cry
And ears like errant wings,
The devil's walking parody
On all four-footed things.
The tattered outlaw of the earth,
Of ancient crooked will;
Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
I keep my secret still.
Fools! For I also had my hour;
One far fierce hour and sweet:
There was a shout about my ears,
And palms before my feet.
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HAIL, GLORIOUS ST. PATRICK
(words: Sister Agnes / tune: ancient Irish melody, 1920)
Hail, glorious St. Patrick, dear saint of our isle,
On us thy poor children bestow a sweet smile;
And now thou art high in the mansions above,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.
On Erin's green valleys, on Erin's green valleys,
On Erin's green valleys look down in thy love.
Hail, glorious St. Patrick, thy words were once strong
Against Satan's wiles and a heretic throng;
Not less is thy might where in Heaven thou art;
Oh, come to our aid, in our battle take part!
In a war against sin, in the fight for the faith,
Dear Saint, may thy children resist to the death;
May their strength be in meekness, in penance, and prayer,
Their banner the Cross, which they glory to bear.
Thy people, now exiles on many a shore,
Shall love and revere thee till time be no more;
And the fire thou hast kindled shall ever burn bright,
Its warmth undiminished, undying its light.
Ever bless and defend the sweet land of our birth,
Where the shamrock still blooms as when thou wert on earth,
And our hearts shall yet burn, wherever we roam,
For God and St. Patrick, and our native home.
*Happy St Patrick's Day for tomorrow!*
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"Cill Aodáin" by blind poet Antoine Ó Raifteiri (1779-1835).
Now coming of the Spring
the day will be lengthening,
and after St. Bridget's Day
I shall raise my sail.
Since I put it into my head.
I shall never stay put
until I shall stand down
in the center of County Mayo.
In Claremorris' family.
I will be the first night,
and in the wall on the side below it
I will begin to drink.
to Kiltimagh (Magh's Woods) I shall go.
until I shall make a month's visit there
two miles close to Aghamore.
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An Irish translation:
Anois teacht an earraigh
beidh an lá ag dul chun síneadh,
Is tar éis na féil Bríde
ardóidh mé mo sheol.
Ó chuir mé i mo cheann é
ní chónóidh me choíche
Go seasfaidh mé síos
i lár Chontae Mhaigh Eo.
I gClár Chlainne Mhuiris.
A bheas mé an chéad oíche,
Is i mballa taobh thíos de
A thosaigh mé ag ól.
Go Coillte Mách rachaidh.
Go ndéanfadh cuairt mhíosa ann
I bhfogas dhá mhíle
Do Bhéal an Átha Mhóir.
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One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead men got up to fight,
Back to back, they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,
One was blind and the other couldn't see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout "hooray!"
A paralysed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye,
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all,
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
And came to arrest the two dead boys,
If you don't believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man who saw it too!
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Inniskeen Road July Evening.
The bicycles go by in twos and threes -
There's a dance in Billy Brennan's barn to-night,
And there's the half-talk code of mysteries
And the wink-and-elbow language of delight.
Half-past eight and there is not a spot
Upon a mile of road, no shadow thrown
That might turn out a man or woman, not
A footfall tapping secrecies of stone.
I have what every poet hates in spite
Of all the solemn talk of contemplation.
Oh, Alexander Selkirk knew the plight
Of being king and government and nation.
A road, a mile of kingdom, I am king
Of banks and stones and every blooming thing.
Patrick Kavanagh (written circa 1936).
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The Cat Came Back
Old Mr. Johnson had problems of his own.
He had a yellow cat that just wouldn't leave him alone.
He tried and he tried to give the cat away.
He gave it to a little man going far away...
But the cat came back the very next day.
Yes, the cat came back.
They thought he was goner
But the cat came back.
He just wouldn't stay away.
He gave it to a little boy with a dollar note.
He told the boy to take the cat up river on a boat.
The boat turned over and was never found,
And now they drag the river for the little boy who drowned...
But the cat came back the very next day.
Yes, the cat came back.
They thought he was goner
But the cat came back.
He just wouldn't stay away.
The man around the corner said he'd shoot the cat on sight.
He loaded up his shotgun full of nails and dynamite.
He waited... and he waited... 'till the cat came walking round
And ninety-seven pieces of the man was all they found...
But the cat came back the very next day.
Yes, the cat came back.
They thought he was goner
But the cat came back.
He just wouldn't stay away.
The H-bomb fell the very next day.
The A-bomb fell in the very same way.
Russia went! England went! And then the USA.
The entire human race was left without a chance to pray...
But the cat came back the very next day.
Yes, the cat came back.
They thought he was gone,
But the cat came back.
He just wouldn't stay away.
:-)
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The Highwayman
by Alfred Noyes
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh.
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side.
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast.
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good.
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood.
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love's refrain.
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the west; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood.
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew gray to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shouting a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
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